Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,6

And his flirting had been subtle but lovely. In another life, she’d have played up her femininity. Gone on a date. Finished that date with a toe-tingling kiss. This wasn’t another life, though. This was her life, and she had a job to do.

Still, thistles invaded her throat, scratching it up. The scratchy pressure built, burning hotter until…

“Clementine,” she squeaked.

His hand hadn’t moved. Neither had hers.

“Clementine,” he repeated, as though tasting his first chocolate cake.

He tilted his hand slightly, angling his palm upward. An invitation. One she couldn’t resist. She pressed her hand against his, and whoa, the feel of his scorching skin. Warmer than the sultry air. It felt so good to touch him, a man who knew her name, even for this fleeting moment. A breath shuddered through her.

“Clementine,” he whispered again.

They both held on, longer than was decent. Sweat slicked their palms, the heat between them intensifying, along with her fluttering pulse.

He held her gaze this time, momentarily. When he glanced away, he quickly looked back. Moisture clung to his brow. A few lines dripped down his cheek, drawing her eyes to a drop sliding along his throat, over his collarbone, toward his chest. She forced her attention up, but it didn’t help. His lips were full and sensual. He had thick eyelashes, longish sideburns. Not like the belching Elvis from the gas station, but not exactly in fashion…something she should have noted. Details never escaped her, especially when heading to a job.

Elvis impersonators wore sideburns. Jack could be a fan. He could show up in Whichway for the festival. She could run into him again, this man who knew her real name.

She yanked her hand back, ignoring the sharp pang at the loss of contact. “Good luck in your meeting.”

“Can I have your number?”

“I’m just traveling through.”

“We could swap Twitter or Instagram handles? Or that snapping thing. Snap that Chat? I don’t do social media, but I could make an exception for the woman who rescued me.”

“I’d rather not.”

Avoiding looking at his handsome face and seeing all she couldn’t have, she turned her engine over and peeled away as quickly as her crappy Prius allowed.

3

Day one as Samantha Rowen was full steam ahead. Clementine’s extended drive was a thing of the past, yesterday’s flirty lapse in judgment over. Straight hair secured in a demure braid and purse slung over her squared shoulder, she walked Whichway’s Main Street, surprisingly charmed by the historic vibe. Brightly colored buildings lined the street, along with old-fashioned lampposts and cobbled sidewalks. A vast improvement to the highway’s desolate landscape.

She pushed into the town hall and nodded at the receptionist. “I’m Samantha Rowen. Here for Jasmine Jones.”

The young girl checked her computer and notified the town liaison.

Clementine stepped aside as two men entered. Two Elvi, to be precise. Elvi was plural for multiple Kings, not Elvises. Another tidbit she’d learned while researching the festival. Best to sound educated around this crowd. These two weren’t wearing polyester jumpsuits, but their slicked black hair and rock star swagger were dead giveaways. One looked Filipino, the other Japanese. One was heavy, the other heavier. One old, one young. Both winked at her.

Apparently the King came in all nationalities and sizes, and winking was a thing with them.

“Here to sign in,” said the portlier fellow.

She’d have inspected them more intently, but her mark was Caucasian and fit. Neither of these Elvi were Maxwell David. She studied the hallway instead, Whichway’s history splayed behind glass panels. The photo of a horse and buggy plodding down Main Street was beyond quaint. Maybe spending time here wouldn’t be so bad. With the festival kicking off in ten days, she’d have over a week to get settled and find Maxwell before the town went nuts. Getting an invite to his family’s estate could take longer.

“Samantha Rowen?”

“The one and only.” For the next couple of weeks, at least.

Jasmine approached, her hand held out for a shake, and Clementine’s mind snapped back to the last hand she’d held. Large. Masculine. Sweaty. Her heart gave a twist.

She shook Jasmine’s hand and forced a smile. “I’m surprised contestants are already showing up.”

Jasmine eyed the new arrivals. “Some like to get settled. Some love Whichway and extend their stay here. The town swells to twelve times its size during the festival.”

Which would complicate Clementine’s job, but she’d dealt with worse. She just had to find her Elvis and nab his painting while being Samantha Rowen, music producer, not Clementine Abernathy, lover of large sweaty hands.